


Eyes On Me

by GayWrath



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken | Fire Emblem: Blazing Sword
Genre: (yet???), Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eliwood is a lingerie model, Everyone Is Gay, Hector is gay and distressed, Lingerie, M/M, Modeling, No Sex, possibly could get gayer, very gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 10:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayWrath/pseuds/GayWrath
Summary: Eliwood is a model, both for fashion magazines and more risque things, like lingerie catalogs. Hector has no interest in fashion or lingerie, but a lot of interest in incredibly attractive redheads with lots of freckles, and this is how everything begins.





	Eyes On Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the gayest and horniest thing I've ever written, despite there being no sex.  
> So, uh... look out for the next part, I guess?

The first time Hector saw him, there was no time to linger.

Uther had dragged him along to one of the most pretentious clothing stores Hector had ever seen, from the dark, sleek interior to the small collections of designer clothes. Apparently, for some ridiculous reason or another, Hector needed a tailored suit, and Uther correctly guessed that, if left to his own devices, he would simply refuse to get one and show up in a t-shirt and jeans.

(Mind you, he was still seriously considering just wearing a t-shirt and jeans to whatever event Uther was dragging him into, just for pettiness’ sake.)

So here he was, wandering aimlessly through the aisles to give the illusion of browsing and resolutely ignoring Uther’s babbling about the importance of fabric hue and lapel width. Honestly, sometimes it seemed as if his brother legitimately forgot that Hector couldn’t (and didn’t want to) distinguish between a five dollar shirt and a five hundred dollar shirt.

Really, at this point, trying to make him understand was just a fool’s errand.

At the very least, the tailor himself seemed to understand Hector’s utter lack of interest, because, when Uther called him over, he completely disregarded Hector and directed all of his questions to Uther instead. Smart man, that one. It left Hector free to just stand around and look across the store, which may not have been much fun, but it was certainly better than enduring Uther’s lecturing.

...Still, though, this place was so _dreary._ For a high-end fashion place, everything seemed to be in the same shades of black, gray, and navy―except for the far corners, where they kept their small supply of non-formal clothes. Even that was mostly overly-expensive Calvin Klein boxers, which apparently came in two colors: grey and slightly-darker grey.

With a sigh, Hector scanned the room for something interesting enough to hold his attention. Racks of bland suit jackets… pressed, pinstriped dress shirts… black and brown business shoes polished to a shine… and, hanging on the walls, various droll portraits of models in droll outfits, each with the exact same artistically sullen look on his face―

Hector paused.

On one of the dark walls, lit with a single small spotlight, was a large print of some underwear model. It was tastefully desaturated, almost to the point of looking greyscale or sepia, but the model’s hair was still obviously red, and the expensive-looking boxers slung low on his hips were some shade of blue.

More striking, however, was the body beneath the boxers. The model was slender and somewhat delicate-looking, but surprisingly muscular―at least some of that definition _had_ to be the work of photoshop, but it couldn’t all be fake―and his entire body was sprinkled with freckles, from his cheeks and nose all the way down to the waistline of his boxers. He was draped across the edge of a table in a nonchalant pose, his face relaxed but still serious―the very picture of casual poise.

It was obviously a staged, heavily edited photo, and it certainly wasn’t advertising anything that he was interested in, but Hector still couldn’t help but stare at the photo for longer than he could easily justify.

Uther snapped his fingers, and Hector startled back to reality. “Hector, stop stalling and pay attention,” Uther hissed under his breath, physically dragging Hector through the aisle by his collar. With a frustrated huff, Hector obediently stumbled along. They might as well just get this over with so they could both go on with their lives.

(Besides, he could still see half of the picture from across the store while the tailor fussed and took his measurements, so it wasn’t all bad.)

* * *

 

The next time, he had much more trouble tearing his eyes away.

Despite his best efforts to resist, he’d ended up being dragged along with Serra to some ridiculous “fashion design” store at the mall. At the very least, it wasn’t quite so pretentious as Uther’s tailor―it was just a regular narrow mall store, the shelves packed with fabrics and threads and mannequins, and the counter wasn’t manned by an old, stuffy tailor, but instead by a part-timer that Serra recognized immediately.

While his self-proclaimed adoptive sister ran around the store like a hyperactive puppy and talked the poor part-timer’s ears off, Hector just groaned, resigned himself to boredom, and ambled towards the magazine rack in the back. If he had to be here, then he might as well try to occupy himself with something, and browsing through pictures of people he didn’t care about probably wouldn’t be _fun,_ but it was better than trying to decipher Serra’s lightning-fast esoteric fashion talk.

Honestly, she was worse than Uther. At least Uther’s opinions on fashion were purely pragmatic. Serra was always throwing words like “avant garde” around, which only further complicated things.

Hector swore that, if she had the money, Serra would walk around in one of those ridiculous “high fashion” pieces that looked like it had been designed by an alien, just because she thought it was “avant garde”.

But that wasn’t really his problem, so he let her shop around to her heart’s content as he ducked behind a tall shelf of thread spools.

To the store’s credit, there was quite a variety of different magazines on display, but, given the fact that he was completely apathetic about high fashion, absolutely none of them appealed to Hector in the slightest. After a brief, cursory scan of the front row, he sighed heavily and just picked one at random.

Reaching for one of the thicker pamphlets, he gripped it gingerly between his fingers, careful not to wrinkle the glossy cover―this place probably had a “you damage it, you buy it” mentality, and he wasn’t wasting any money on this crap. The top shelf was packed full, and this magazine was crammed between the one behind it and the wire rack, so he had to slowly and tediously wriggle it free.

Finally, it slid out, and Hector froze.

The magazine was still dangling awkwardly from his fingertips, but he wasn’t looking at it anymore―no, he was more interested in the magazine that had been hiding right behind it.

Specifically, the cover.

He didn’t recognize the title, but the model posing beneath it was unmistakable, even though this was only the second time Hector had seen him. It was the underwear model from that snooty tailor’s place. His skin was rosy beneath the freckles―logically, Hector knew it was just makeup, but it made him look vibrant and lively, despite his demure pose and expression―and, in this picture, the vibrant red of his hair and soft blue of his eyes had been left unedited.

He wasn’t naked, this time, either. No; he was wearing… something between a gown and a jumpsuit, it seemed. The top half consisted of a shimmering, skin-tight golden fabric underneath tasteful forest green lace; it covered his neck, chest, and arms, yet still didn’t leave much to the imagination. At the waist, though, it turned into a flowing… skirt? made of multiple overlapping segments of green satin. The skirt (?) parted in the front to show lacey leggings beneath that may or may not have been a part of the entire… gown-jumpsuit ensemble.

Either way, he looked gorgeous in it―far more attractive than he looked in his underwear, even though that seemed completely backwards―and Hector’s mouth went progressively drier the longer he looked at the picture.

Almost without thinking about it, he reached for the magazine, discarding the first one he’d grabbed and beginning to flip through the pages. Most of them were just advertisements or other models that he had no interest in, but, when he did arrive at that particular red-haired model’s section, he stopped dead in his tracks once again.

There were, unfortunately, only a few more pictures of him, but each was more stunning than the last. In two of them, he was wearing beautifully-styled suits, one embroidered with pastel flowers and the other dyed a myriad of different colors with what looked like watercolor paints. In the rest, though, he was wearing gowns, and these were the pictures that caught Hector’s eye.

One photo, in particular, he just couldn’t seem to look away from―an aerial shot looking down on the model from an angle as he strode forward, glancing up through his eyelashes. He was wearing a long, gauzy white dress with a V-shaped neckline that plunged down nearly to his navel; it was embroidered with intricate red flowers that started out thick and dense near the collar but grew smaller and farther apart as they trailed down the length of the dress.

One of the model’s bare legs was emerging from the front of his skirts, transparent fabric draped around his knee, his bare foot almost en pointe, as if he was wearing invisible stilettos. Much of his chest was visible, too, thanks to the dress’s low neckline. This time, he didn’t look as muscular as he had in the boxer shot―it had probably been a mixture of photoshop, makeup, and intense flexing that made him look so buff in that one―but he was still obviously flexing, and he was still very well-toned. He was slim, but his calves (and what little was visible of his abs) were… _sculpted,_ Hector supposed the word was.

Again, he tried to remind himself that makeup and photoshop existed, but it was difficult when this man was also practically _drenched_ in freckles from head to toe. There were brown splotches on his face; his chest; his legs; his arms―some were faint, while others were more blatant; some were tiny dots while others were larger marks; some were perfectly circular while others were more oblong or abnormally-shaped.

And it was entirely possible that makeup and photoshop had still played a huge part in the picture, but it wasn’t like they could’ve just covered him in foundation or digitally changed his skin to a single color, or whatever magazines did to models. The freckles made him look so much more… grounded. They made him look _real._

Even if everything else about the photo, from the framing to the clothing to the expression on his face, made him look absolutely ethereal.

Without thinking about it, Hector reached forward and touched the page with the tips of his fingers, as gingerly as one would graze the surface of an oil painting or an ancient stone carving.

The model looked, at once, incredibly confident―striding forward purposefully, his shoulders thrown back―and also strangely docile―his head lowered submissively and his eyes half-lidded. The effect was… staggering. He managed to look both incredibly flirtatious and also almost shy; very open, but not outwardly provocative; willing, but not willful. Neither deferential nor dominating; neither creepily subservient nor overly cocky. Someone who wouldn’t take the initiative, but wouldn’t take any shit, either.

That strange combination of moods, so carefully crafted and staged by the model and photographer, combined with the gorgeous clothing and even more gorgeous man underneath, plus the backdrop of an old-looking cracked stone path, which added both an enigmatic, almost fairytale-like vibe and, simultaneously, a more humble and down-to-earth feeling, like something utterly impossible yet completely attainable―

It was very, very hot.

Very, very, _very_ hot.

Two hands gripped at Hector’s clothes, and he startled, jolting in place with a surprised grunt. “What are you gawking at?” Serra demanded, practically climbing onto his back to peer over his shoulder. “Finally taken an interest in fashion, have you?”

Despite himself, Hector flushed in both irritation and embarrassment. “I am _not,”_ he said sharply, trying to hastily close the magazine, but it was too late―Serra reached out and snatched it from his hands.

“Ooh, is that Eliwood Pherae?” she said, retreating from Hector’s back when he tried to grab the magazine back. “Wow, I can’t believe he’s getting on covers now! I mean, he deserves it, but still!”

Hector was so surprised that he forgot how angry he’d been a minute ago. “You know him?” he demanded.

“Well, not personally,” Serra said, “but we have mutual friends. He’s been quite the local success story as of late!” Turning over her shoulder, she waved to get the cashier’s attention. “Hey, Ninian! You know Eliwood Pherae, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m not supposed to introduce him to fans,” Ninian said without missing a beat. _“Including_ fans who are ‘in the biz’, as you say―so, no, Serra, I won’t make an exception for you. Sorry.”

Serra scoffed indignantly. “I wasn’t going to ask you to make an exception!” she said unconvincingly. “Have some faith in me! I was just curious! Goodness, gracious!”

They bickered for a moment longer, but Hector just stared at the magazine in Serra’s hands, spellbound. _Eliwood Pherae._ What a pretty name, too. Was it a stage name? Had Eliwood chosen it himself? Or had the universe just seen fit to give him the face, body, _and_ name of a deity?

Or maybe he was being a little melodramatic. Hector violently shook those thoughts out of his head and turned away from the magazine. He had absolutely no interest in fashion. He probably wouldn’t see another picture of Eliwood ever again. And it wasn’t as if he was going to buy the damn thing just because he was thirsty for the cover model. He wasn’t that pathetic. He wasn’t.

He bought the magazine. Serra was ecstatic.

* * *

 

Admirably, Hector abstained for a solid three days before giving in and looking up Eliwood Pherae on social media.

It didn’t take long to find him―he was apparently pretty active on Twitter and Instagram. Actually, he was Twitter verified, which was both impressive and intimidating. From what Serra had said, it had seemed like he was just a small-time model who managed to land a good gig and end up on a magazine cover. Hector had thought he was just pretty, not popular. Turns out that, while he wasn’t exactly big-time, he was certainly up there. If nothing else, he had plenty of followers on both platforms.

…It wasn’t difficult to see why. While some of his tweets were just quick updates, jokes, and random musings, many of them were pictures―everything from casual workout selfies to more staged photos that could’ve passed for professional shots, at least to an amateur like Hector. Apparently, he was even occasionally allowed to show off outfits from upcoming shoots or magazines.

Hector wasn’t sure what was more endearing, though―the more casual selfies, some of which looked completely unedited (most people didn’t post unedited selfies, much less professional models), or the charming captions on the more serious photos, which were adorably enthusiastic. He had a tendency to gush about how honored he was to be working with [insert name Hector didn’t recognize here], or how beautiful the clothes he was shooting with were.

Really, all of his tweets gave off the same vibe―it made him sound friendly, humble, and very approachable. It could very well be fake, of course; even small-time celebrities probably put a lot of focus on maintaining a good public image on social media these days. Even though he had no evidence to back it up, though, Hector couldn’t help but feel that this was… genuine. Sincere.

Or maybe that was just his ridiculous celebrity crush talking.

…Either way, here he was. Thirst-following a male model who he didn’t even know because of an underwear ad and a magazine cover.

Hector thought it was fair to say that his life had reached a new low.

Though that certainly wasn’t to say that he couldn’t still sink lower if he really tried.

* * *

 

A week or so after Hector followed Eliwood on Twitter and Instagram, Serra showed up on his doorstep, completely unannounced. This wasn’t a particularly uncommon occurrence, so all Hector bothered saying was “What do you want?” as he cracked the door open―and, when she pushed past him and casually slipped into his apartment, completely ignoring his question, all he did was sigh lugubriously and swing the door shut.

“I have a present for you,” Serra announced after she’d made herself comfortable on Hector’s couch. She fanned herself dramatically. “No, no―don’t thank me. The pleasure of giving is its own reward.”

For a moment, Hector just stared at her, dumbstruck. “Serra,” he mustered up eventually, “it’s, like, one in the morning.”

 _“Exactly,_ you slugabed,” she said, examining her fingernails. “Honestly, you used to be such a party animal! Now you’re in bed before midnight? What _happened_ to you?”

“I picked up a six-A.M. shift,” Hector responded crossly. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing here?”

Serra smiled dazzlingly. “Excellent question, my dear brother! You see, as I literally just explained to you less than a minute ago, I have a gift for you.”

“A gift that couldn’t wait until it _wasn’t_ one in the morning?”

“Exactly!” With that, Serra thrust a plastic grocery bag into his arms.

Hector, who was somewhat accustomed to her antics by now, just sighed and sunk into the couch cushion next to her, obediently removing the “gift” from the grocery bag. It was a magazine wrapped in cloudy blue-tinted plastic, obscuring the cover completely. Not that it was any more inconspicuous like that, considering the fact that it had a big red “18+” stamped in the corner.

“You got me a porn magazine,” Hector said flatly.

Serra scoffed. “It’s not _porn,”_ she corrected with an indignant toss of her head. “It’s a lingerie catalog.”

“I don’t wear lingerie,” Hector said in a perfect monotone. “Also, lingerie catalogs aren’t 18+. 18+ means porn. You got me porn.” He looked up at her accusingly. _“Heterosexual_ porn, at that.”

“It figures that a brute like you would only be able to imagine _that_ when you see a simple age restriction warning,” Serra said, but, tellingly, she didn’t dispute him. She just leaned back in her seat and gestured to the plastic-wrapped magazine. “Go on. Open it up.”

Hector scowled. “Serra, I’m not looking at _porn_ in front of you.”

“It’s _not porn―”_

“I’m still not gonna look at it!”

With an exaggerated huff, Serra pushed herself off of the couch, somehow managing to look both petulant and refined. “Very well. I see when I’m not wanted. Because I’m exceedingly gracious, I’ll even let you get away with not thanking me for my thoughtful and generous gift.”

_“Thoughtful my ass―”_

_“But!”_ Serra pointed her finger emphatically at Hector’s chest. “You have to at least open it! If it’s not out of the plastic when I come by tonight, I’m going to buy several dozen copies, open them myself, and leave them on your doorstep when you least expect.”

Hector glared. “You won’t.”

“Won’t I?”

They stared each other down for a moment before Hector relented with an aggravated groan. “Fine,” he said exasperatedly, “but you need to _get out.”_

Even though she’d already agreed to leave, he’d expected Serra to fight him on that. But, much to his surprise―and alarm―her only reaction was a huge, shit-eating grin and a cheeky “Oh, of course. I’ll give you some alone time,” before she turned and skipped out the door, closing it behind her with a _slam_ that probably woke at least one neighbor.

Hector warily glanced down at the magazine and wondered how likely it was to be a bomb. Surely she wouldn’t go that far.

…Who was he kidding; yes she would.

Unfortunately, though, his need for sleep superseded his rightful suspicion of anything Serra was involved with, so, after a few minutes, he sat back down on the couch, braced himself, and tore the plastic off of the magazine to reveal the cover.

Hector’s entire body went rigid.

Apparently, Serra hadn’t been lying―this was clearly a lingerie catalog in some capacity, even if it was pulling double-duty as softcore porn. There was even a small cut-out coupon in the corner of the cover for 20% off your first purchase.

But he wasn’t interested in lingerie coupons, nor the title of the magazine, nor even its contents. He was preoccupied with the picture of Eliwood on the cover.

It _was_ Eliwood, no doubt, but this was nothing like the pictures in the other magazine or even the underwear ad. Instead of standing up, walking forward, or leaning against something nonchalantly, this Eliwood was on his knees with his legs spread. His bent arms were stretched above him, elbows pointing straight up and forearms tangled in white fabric behind his head―caught in the action of peeling off his shirt. With his legs and his arms pulling in opposite directions, his torso was stretched out between them, his chest pushed forward, highlighting the curvature of his slender body as well as the subtle definition of his muscles.

He was also almost completely naked, save for… Hector was hesitant to call it an article of clothing. If anything, it was a skimpy piece of expensive-looking lingerie. It most closely resembled a mixture between a blouse and a vest, made of gossamer-thin white fabric and fastened around his neck with a pink satin ribbon. There were two strips of fabric, and they were held together by a corset-like configuration of crisscrossing pink ribbons, but the two sides only touched just beneath his collarbone, where the ribbons were tied with a small bow. Underneath that, the fabric spread apart, exposing much of his chest and stomach behind the grid of ribbons. Not that the top concealed much, anyway; you could easily see the lines of his body and even the shadows of his freckles through the translucent fabric.

On the lower half of his body, he wore something that you might call a skirt if you were feeling generous, held low on his hips by a single loop of pink ribbon tied in an off-center bow. The shimmering white fabric draped across his spread thighs was just opaque enough―and just low enough―to preserve his quote-unquote “modesty”. If he moved even slightly, though, he would probably expose himself.

Not that it mattered, Hector reminded himself. This was a photograph. Eliwood wasn’t going to move.

By the expression on his face, though, you wouldn’t guess it. His eyes were half-lidded, his lips barely parted, and the expression was so intense that Hector almost thought he saw Eliwood’s chest rise and fall. It was the same mix of emotions that he’d worn in that magazine along with the red-and-white gown―a bit unsure, a bit bashful, but mostly just… pleased.

Despite the sexual clothing, he didn’t look like he was trying to seduce anyone, and, despite the somewhat vulnerable pose, he didn’t look like he was being forced into anything against his will. It looked like he was appropriately embarrassed about being caught with his pants down but also more than okay with the situation he’d found himself in.

Like he was waiting for you to make a move.

Hector swallowed thickly.

This was a pin-up―no two ways about it. This was borderline pornography. And, judging by the shit-eating grin Serra had shot him before she left, Eliwood being on the cover―Eliwood being on the cover looking like _that_ ―was no coincidence. This had been a very deliberate… “gift”, as she had called it.

Which meant he was so thirsty for this model―a model he had never met―that Serra, stupid and oblivious as she was, had picked up on it.

At that moment, Hector knew beyond a shadow of the doubt that his life had hit a new low.

**Author's Note:**

> Hm. Wow, Hector. That's............... pretty gay.


End file.
